Kindly edited by @CollinHarrison4
Tillyen clucked softly at the horses and urged them forward. Never had she driven a wagon with such weight, a sluggish thing that added more burden to the beasts' drudgery. A wheel found a deep rut and shifted everything to the side. Kelton leaned hard into her before he caught himself and righted after the wheel found better purchase.
"My sorrows," Kelton whispered, soft as a breeze.
Tillyen smiled. Of all the things a mother of a nighthouse endured, this was the lightest of them - the beginning of the end. From the first time she had met Kelton, she had known in her heart that he was the Answer. He had lost his early misgivings and was now confident in his ways. The boy had become a man and carried the hope of all. She was so pleased to see that his shoulders were broad enough to bear such a burden.
They approached the building, an old smithy that had been empty for some time. The owner was taken by a sickness that caused blackened lips and slow suffocation - something contracted from a merchant no doubt, though it did not spread. Still, none risked reinhabiting the structure. The desire to breathe created a perfect hideaway for those who saw no risk. How it was located by the man called Fingers, she did not know. It was the Answer she trusted, and he trusted Fingers.
Kelton leaned back. "Nine down, five up," he whispered to the men lying prone in the bed of the wagon. It was a count of who he could sense, unfortunately not a count of those he could not. He turned back to Tillyen. "It is my time," he said.
Tillyen nodded as Kelton leaped silently off the buckboard. He reached into the lumbering wagon and retrieved a hewn trunk from a young fir tree about a man and a half high. Short stubs of branches lined the sides with a carved spear-point at the bottom. The other end was cut at an angle to lay flat against the side of a building - a climbing pole.
Kelton ran ahead and disappeared around the smithy's side as Tillyen brought her team to a halt in front. A tickle of anticipation ran through her old bones as she heard the second wagon slow on the other side of the building.
It was Tillyen's turn. She dismounted and gathered a basket of fresh bread from the back. Fear was what she thought would emerge, yet only excitement pumped in her veins. If she were younger, there would be a sword, not bread, in her hands.
~~~~~
Padden moved his chair closer to the open hearth. It was a large bowl of a thing in the center of the building, with four pillars holding a stone chimney in place. A ring of stone surrounded the flames with strategic holes that were once home to bellows. Soldiers were gathered on the other side in two groups - one set playing bones, the other sharing tales of women they claimed to have conquered. In truth, he would have enjoyed a game of bones. His current daughter, Facillia, relished the game, and Padden would have liked to try to win for once. Alas, Brethren and ordinary soldiers did not mix.
The boredom was better than the docks, where the winds blew incessantly. At least here, Padden was warm. Corleon was a good man to follow, but Padden wanted no part of the physical duty. Hunting commoners was a trivial thing, and blood tended to stain. Better to leave it to those who desired a stronger name. He was happy to live off Corleon's success and stay warm.
Padden shifted in his seat when he felt the approach of two. Floating intent, indicative of the mounted or wagon-bound. They stopped, one in front and the other along the road in the back. A curious thing at night, though their intent held no outright threat. The one in front moved toward the door, and the other moved away as if he meant to enter a building to the north.
"On guard," Padden said casually to the soldiers. It got their attention. "A visitor approaches." A moment later, a knock.
"Bread," a woman called. Old, if her rasped word was any guide.
